by Shamarka.

I do not really call it travelling when I return to my home country. Anyway, I still get this weird feeling of excitement while packing my huge suitcase (about 20% clothes and 500% presents for my grandparents, friends and my dad’s second cousin’s wife’s friend’s dog). I get off at Sofia Airport, praying that my bag will arrive whole and somewhat clean on the conveyor belt and praying some more in the presumably legally licensed microbus rushing 150 km/h to Varna, our so called “seaside capital”.

Getting off the bus, the first thing I notice are how well tanned, skinny and flawless (yes, Beyoncé, you got me there) all the girls are. Leaving the apartment without at least doing your eyebrows and putting on a nice shirt is considered homeless style by everyone, even by the judging eyes of the stray cat at the corner. The second thing I rather feel than notice is the warm hug of my friend and the following comment: “Sweetie, you look fabulous! Let’s get drunk tonight and get your nails done tomorrow, that would make you a perfect 10/10!” My people there are open and honest, spontaneous and ready to get down.

A week spent at the seaside means getting up at 9, walking to the nearest beach and, like the typical Bulgarian female, staying under the blazing sun until 6 PM, no hat on (hats are for the weak…like bras), drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes. Afterwards, we switch to party mode: high-heels, your shortest dress and an hour worth of make-up are a must. In Varna, a city of 400.000, everybody knows everybody. So naturally, a night in the club means wandering around and greeting people (+ posting everything on Snapchat), besides dancing and getting drunk. (Note: We Bulgarians have one of the highest alcohol tolerances in the world so if you are planning to get a Bulgarian chick into your bed, simply forget about it. Or your wallet. And getting drunk girls into bed is immoral anyway.)

After getting the desired dark chocolate tan and wasting half of your salary on gin tonic (for our non-Bulgarians here – alcohol is pretty cheap in Bulgaria – unless you drink like a Bulgarian), the next stop is granny’s house. Old people in Bulgaria are almost always very young at heart – in my opinion due to growing up in the communist era and having to deal with the most conservative rules one can imagine. My grandma always greets me at the door and, after complaining how thin I have become (this is her – mostly false – excuse for stuffing me up with sweets over the next two weeks), she starts telling me stories about herself and her friends, about their work at the Bulgarian Interior Ministry and their post-communism journeys together. Meanwhile, my granddad keeps shaking his head, murmuring, “I married a fury.” with a hidden loving look in his warm eyes.

Although Bulgaria is a country of pretty messed up political structure and casual disorganisation, I will always love it and the people I leave behind there every summer. I will always be proud of calling myself a Bulgarian. For almost nobody else can give me this simple warmth, the crazy ideas or this cosy curve of the tongue when a Bulgarian pronounces my name the right way.